


Borrowed Children

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [56]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Babies, Birth, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8004955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Increasingly estranged from Aslaug's sons, Athelstan reflects on the children in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borrowed Children

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the first part of 3x06.

The air outside was frigid, and the wind howled, occasionally blowing a few flakes of hard, small snow through the cracks in his home's rough-hewn walls.

Yet Athelstan barely noticed, lit as he was by a fire far greater than the one that kept the temperature in the room considerably higher than the deep-winter freeze on the other side of the wood.

"Up a little—there! Yes!" he cried, his face half-buried in a goose-feather-filled cushion. One of the feathers had poked its way through the cover, and tickled his ear. It made him want to giggle, but each time he started to, the utterance was quickly subsumed in a deep, resonant groan.

Ragnar shifted his grip on his lover's hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He was nearing his peak, Athelstan could tell. Long years of intimate familiarity with each other had given them instinctive understanding of even the most subtle of changes. In response, Athelstan tightened his own body in a rhythmic way he had learned gave his beloved extra pleasure. Sure enough, after only a few of the pulses, Ragnar cried out. Soon thereafter, Athelstan followed.

As the tension subsided and their bodies began returning to their usual less-agitated states, Athelstan felt almost melancholy. He had had so little of Ragnar's time and attention in recent weeks, and he wished he could somehow keep the man here—keep their bodies locked together so tightly that nothing else could ever come between them. But reality soon took over and they disengaged, leaving a feeling of emptiness Athelstan very much misliked.

After taking a moment to tidy up, the two lay there, Athelstan's body nestled into Ragnar's embrace, simply enjoying the contact as long as they could. It was late—their trysts often were, to help guarantee their privacy—and the day had been long. Sleep tugged at his eyelids, much as he tried to stave it off.

"You should go back," he murmured, though his tone told a far different story than the words.

Ragnar heaved a bitter sigh. "I should. I think I will not tonight, though."

A spark of concern made Athelstan a bit more alert, and he shifted in Ragnar's embrace. "But are you not worried?"

Ragnar shrugged. "I am. I am also not sure that I care any more. Aslaug knows where I am and if she holds any ill will about it, that is her problem to bear. I think the children probably know, or are starting to. Ubbe, at least, has probably already guessed that my love for you is stronger than my feelings for his mother."

Athelstan squirmed. Of all Aslaug's children, Ubbe was the one with whom he had formed the tightest bonds. The now-eight-year-old boy had spent much of his baby and toddler years relying on Athelstan as a tertiary caregiver—one he spent more time with than the various women who attended his mother's needs. The year they spent parted, while Athelstan was captive in Wessex, had made both feel the lack. Indeed, it was missing the boy and his brother Hvitserk that had sparked Athelstan's decision to abandon Ecbert and return home—if this was indeed what Kattegat was to him. Ubbe had also been quick to seek Athelstan's attention when they returned from their latest jaunt westward.

Yet this time, the joyful reunion had been interrupted by Aslaug tearing the children away from him, and every time Ubbe had wanted to play with the former priest, his mother had guided him elsewhere. At first gently, and then more forcefully, until they now spent next to no time together at all, save the occasional brief conversation over a meal in the great hall.

Did the child know of his father's true feelings? Athelstan felt uncomfortable with the thought, and yet it was undoubtedly so, as Ragnar had said. A wave of shame washed over him, and he almost unconsciously pulled away from his lover's embrace.

"Something wrong?" Ragnar reached back for him.

Athelstan shook his head, but then realized denial would be pointless. "I fear that if your sons know of our relationship, they will blame me for your distance from their mother."

"Bjorn does not feel that way."

"Yes, but he knows the true circumstances of the end of your first marriage. Also, he is considerably older—nearly a man grown. The boys still need their mother—still cling to her. You, they will always have, but I have no cause to remain close should your marriage end this time." Athelstan left unsaid the other reasons for his discomfort; they were based largely in lingering guilt over the sinful nature of their couplings themselves. His ill-considered dalliance with Judith had brought back some of his old shame over sins of the flesh. In the moment, he cared not what God may think of his indulging in such pleasures, but being reminded of the innocence of children regarding such things nagged at his mind nonetheless. Not that these particular children were nearly as sheltered from such knowledge as Christian children would be, and it certainly wasn't as if they were having their trysts where the boys would be directly aware of them. Yet it bothered him that Ubbe might have figured out that his father was laying with Athelstan as he had lain with Aslaug—even though that particular act hadn't happened in a very long time. It was one thing to be aware of how his mother so frequently became pregnant; quite another to be aware of acts that his culture considered far less acceptable.

"Let me worry about my sons," Ragnar said, his voice low and soothing. "They will have their own choice and free will about what kind of a relationship they wish to have with you, even if their mother may have unkind words." He tugged at Athelstan's shoulder, pulling him back into the embrace. "Let us not dwell on such things now—nor on any other worries about what people outside this room may think about what we do in it."

Athelstan let out the breath he'd been holding and tried to relax. "All right."

"I am tired, now," Ragnar said, his speech now a bit fuzzy with impending sleep. "We will address the needs of the world when the sun rises. For now, your light is all I need."

 

The remaining months of winter were long and bitter. Athelstan took what comforts he could find with Ragnar and the few in Kattegat who were still friendly with him, but it was an isolating time. He found himself turning instead to spiritual matters to pass his days: taking the few pieces of vellum he had that had not been used for his book to write down as much of the Gospels as he could remember. That he didn't otherwise have a copy of the Scriptures with him these days made him feel uncomfortable. Too, however, he began writing down what he had learned from the Northmen of their gods. In doing these things, he could feel some pull of the Divine. He felt God guiding his hand on the Gospels, and the watchful eye of the Allfather's ravens on him as he told their tales. When he switched from one to the other, however, he felt a little resistance, as if the deity he was writing did not want to be supplanted by the other. Each time, his own will overrode such tugs at his soul. He would not be bound to one faith, he had pledged, and he meant to honor that.

Finally, the skies began to lighten and the icicles began melting. The wind was still chilly, but one could be outside for longer than a few minutes without risking frostbite. Floki and his carpenters went back to work readying the fleet for the journey to Paris. Ragnar began asking Athelstan's advice on specific plans for approaching and breaching the high walls of the Frankish city. The animals were released to their outdoor pens, and the children dashed through the alleyways again.

On his way to the market stalls one crisp afternoon, Athelstan found himself nearly bowled over by Ubbe as he tore down the path, Floki's young daughter racing after him as fast as her little legs could take her.

"Stop!" she cried, her small voice raised in anger and indignation. "Mine!"

"No!" Ubbe laughed at her and dodged her attempt to snatch back what was in his hand.

"Whoa!" Athelstan tried to regain his balance as the children crashed into each other and then into him. "What are you two doing?"

Ubbe, absorbed enough in his game that he hadn't realized which adult he had nearly upset, stopped short. "Oh! Athlestan. Hello!" He continued keeping the object out of reach of of the girl.

"What is it you have here?" Athelstan captured the boy's wrist and pried open his hand. What he found there was a tiny carved doll with a scrap of cloth tied around its waist as a dress. "This is not yours, is it, Ubbe?" He held up the doll. Angrboda's eyes grew wide.

Ubbe looked at the ground. "No. I was just playing, though."

Athelstan gave the doll back to its rightful owner, who squealed a thank you and then toddled happily back toward the market, likely seeking her mother. "Why would you do that?" he asked the boy, eyes narrowed and voice stern.

Ubbe didn't meet his gaze. He shrugged. "It was just some fun. Hvitserk and I were—" he broke off as the brother in question raced around the corner.

"Where did she go?" the younger boy demanded.

"That way," Ubbe nodded, but stopped his brother from going further. "But stay here. Leave her alone."

Hvitserk's expression grew dark. "Why? We were having fun!" He looked up at Athelstan, recognizing him.

Athelstan sighed, and crouched down to the boy's level. "You might have been having fun," he said, "but she was not. She is also much smaller than you two—barely older than your baby brother."

"So?" Hvitserk was defiant.

"So?" Athelstan felt a rush of anger. "You must treat those weaker than yourself with kindness and respect."

Hvitserk rolled his eyes. "That sounds like a Christian thing."

Athelstan's jaw tightened. The boys had never before scoffed at their one-time caregiver's faith. Their father had always made sure that they knew that even though Athelstan's beliefs were somewhat different, they were to be respected. Clearly, something had changed. He regained his composure. "It is a human thing, not a Christian one. It is one thing to conquer a well-matched foe in battle; quite another to prey on someone who cannot defend themselves. Only a coward attacks those who pose no threat."

"If you say so. I don't care. My mother says I should not listen to you anyway." Hvitserk squared his shoulders, pushed past Athelstan, and raced after his quarry.

Athelstan stood up, though his legs shook with nerves as he did so. He looked back down at Ubbe, who rubbed an arm across his nose and sighed. "Is that true?" he asked the boy.

"What our mother said? Yeah." He leaned against the wall.

"She . . . does not like me anymore, does she?" Athelstan felt like sobbing, but he wouldn't show the boy his tears.

Ubbe finally met his eyes. "No. She has not said so exactly, but I think it has something to do with our father. She thinks he spends too much time with you."

Athelstan tried to stay calm. "Do you think that as well?"

"No." Ubbe shrugged, and sighed. "Perhaps? A little, I guess." His eyes grew wet. "I miss us all being together. I wish we could go back to being a family."

"Well, your mother and father seem to be having—"

Ubbe put a hand on his arm. "Not just them. You. I want all of my family."

"Oh." Athelstan turned, settling back against the wall. He rubbed his face thoughtfully. "I wish that, too, but it is not my choice to make. I am sorry if I have caused any problems with your parents."

"It does not matter," Ubbe said, brushing away a tear that had escaped down his face. "I wish I could go to Paris with you, though. I wish I did not have to stay here with my mother and my brothers."

"Someday, I think." Athelstan tried to sound reassuring, though he didn't feel that way himself. "For now, however, you must listen to your mother. It is her decision whether you should be around me, and it seems she does not want that. You should go. Catch up with your brother and be sure he is not doing any mischief."

"All right." Ubbe nodded, and hurried off, casting one last glance over his shoulder.

Athelstan stayed there for several moments, collecting himself.He closed his eyes, memories of all the children he had cared for dancing through his mind. Sweet Gyda, taken far too soon. Bold Bjorn, who had come to care for him despite all pressure not to. And each of the other boys, even poor little Ivar, about whom he still prayed.

Too, he remembered Judith's charming baby boy, and the brief moment he had envisioned what life would have been like had the child been his, instead of her husband's. All these children, and none of them his; the joy of being near them borrowed from those who were their rightful parents.

A different cry—that of a grown woman—broke his reverie. He hurried back down the path toward the Great Hall, in time to see Aslaug rushing across the path to a nearby home—Bjorn and Ϸorunn's. The former poked his head out of the door. "It is her time, I think!" he told the older woman. "I think my child is coming!"

"Go get Helga," she directed him. "And see if Elisef can spare one of her women." She ducked inside the house.

Bjorn turned to do as she ordered. He caught sight of Athelstan as he did so, and smiled. "I am going to be a father!" his face looked pale, but he also seemed excited. "Will you tell Ragnar, please? I think he has gone out hunting. I do not know where. Can you find him?"

Athelstan beamed at him and nodded. "I can guess where he might be. I will go fetch him." He headed quickly toward the stables. Of late, Ragnar had been spending some long hours at a previously abandoned hunting shack on the edge of a small lake. Sometimes he wanted to be by himself, but he also invited Athelstan there as well. The building was rough but cozy, and had a nice view of the hills that housed their beloved waterfall glade. It was too cold to go there just yet, but he hoped the spring would warm up soon, so they would have a chance to go at least once before they set off for Paris.

As he readied his mount, a sudden wave of dread and nausea washed through him. He heard another scream of a woman bringing forth a child. Yet this one was different: it was not Ϸorunn. He turned; there was no one nearby, and he didn't think another baby was due in the village so soon. Had he imagined it?

There it was again, so anguished that it nearly buckled his knees. Reflexively, he clutched at the crucifix that dangled from the chain around his neck. His mind, it seemed, crossed the sea in but an instant. A stone-walled room. A lush bed. A dark-haired woman, her face shiny with sweat, her expression a mask of pain and fear.

"Judith!" he gasped the name. Yet as soon as the sound left his lips, the vision also left his mind. His horse whickered, apparently impatient to be mounted and on their way. Another cry—Ϸorunn's real one this time—echoed again from the right place.

"Athelstan?"

He turned. A dark-haired woman approached him. This was not Judith, however, but one of Lagertha's shieldmaidens: a young woman who had stayed in Kattegat out of loyalty—and her relationship with one of Ragnar's crewmen. "Yes?"

"I just saw Bjorn," she said. "He told me I should try to find his mother, and said you might know where she is."

"Oh!" Athelstan rubbed his face, trying to get his thoughts back to reality. "I think so, yes. She sent word a few weeks ago that she was in a small village a couple of hours south of here. Ostenkaer, I believe?"

"That seems right. I will go find her, then. I am certain she will want to be here when her grandchild arrives!" Waving a farewell, she headed down the row of stalls to find her own horse.

Athelstan trailed a finger over the surface of his cross again. No further visions came to mind. He mounted the horse, and nudged it to a swift trot along the path that led out of the village.

As he passed beneath the wooden arch that marked the unofficial Northern boundary of Kattegat, he heard a baby's first cry.


End file.
